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The Bruised Coccyx Incident

(AKA RBCC vs Bourne CC Monday, August tour 2000)

A View from Behind the Stumps.

You can imagine the scenario, the usual motley selection of aspiring but ever middle-ageing combatants who make up the Red Bat touring party, facing a side who purported to have easily beaten the 2nd weekend tour fixture, Grantham CC, earlier in the season. The fact that RBCC were comprehensively trounced by Grantham the previous day added a nervous edge to the pre-match banter. It proved impossible to over look the cheerfully confident young athletic types lurking in the adjacent changing room. The lack of space, the third day whites, the sickly smell of full English breakfasts and bitter emanating from various orifices and Phil Jones looming large into my vision.

A coccyx, yesterday.  Not Chris's though.

I had remained remarkably sober the previous evening when the Annual Quiz was conducted.. This had a lot to do with some 'top grass' the result of which was that I was incapable of speech for the majority of the evening. The Grateful Dead allusions swam past me, along with obscure references to 70s musicians who failed to gain any serious popular support. Nevertheless our team dominated the first round of the quiz with Bruce answering 90% of the questions correctly. I spent most of my time looking around and admiring the incredible wit and verbal fluency exhibited by various members of the collective. In short, I had completely lost it.

I digress. We fielded, I assume out of respect, but possibly 'cap' lost another toss. George Someone came in. He was allegedly averaging in excess of 100 for the season. He soon showed us why, smiting Andy Lee off his leg stump and generally smacking the ball around to all parts. Phil S., who had made a welcome return following a lengthy unexplained absence, was bowling well. I stood up to the wicket. Phil asked me to drop back. I stayed where I was. A sharp catch went begging. Then, having taken the ball cleanly, the batsman was out of his ground. I made contact with the stumps pirouetting one bail into the air only to see it promptly return and nestle partially but determinedly back into its groove. The umpire gratuitously confirmed that George Someone would indeed have been out if only it had toppled.

The following over a bad call and a scrambled single. Matt was fielding at short square leg. Not short enough apparently. He collected the ball and hurled it at me. It was a poor return, wide of the stumps, causing me to step backwards to gather. As I moved I felt the same toppling sensation I had experienced the previous evening whilst walking up the stairs to my hotel room. I broke the stumps ball in hand, appealed with enthusiasm and panic and almost simultaneously my arse impacted with a ridge formed by the bowlers footmarks, coccyx to the fore.

The experience of pain is of course subjective, but that was no consolation. Severe, intense, unbelievably excruciating and unrelenting. Not out was the decision. We went on to lose heavily. It took almost three years to shake off the injury. Strangely I still visualise Phil Solomon's strange, snarling expression as the missed opportunities off his bowling sunk in. Somehow I cherish the moment.

Wiggy 27.10.00